[Spoiler alerts follow. If you are under the age of ten or have lived a very sheltered life do not, I repeat DO NOT read on.]

‘Twas the weeks before Christmas, and all throughout my school, students were preparing for the upcoming festivities by making sparkly cards and consuming exorbitant amounts of chocolate and candy canes. The year was 2004.

In my second grade classroom specifically, we were discussing every little kid’s favorite topic: presents. Our hopes, our expectations, whether we did stockings or not–all were contemplated by each high-functioning young mind in the classroom. A little girl soon made a lighthearted comment about how Santa was her favorite part of Christmas, and that’s when I made the biggest blunder ever.

“You know Santa Claus isn’t real, right?”

Fifteen pairs of disbelieving eyes blinked at me silently.

You see, my parents had left me with no illusions about the existence of the fat man. Since we went to my grandparents’ home in Minnesota every year, presents from various families were already piled up under the tree days before Old Saint Nick was supposed to slip down the nonexistent chimney and clamber into the basement to place his gifts for us kids. Each wrapped box under the tree was also labelled with the giver’s name in case the youth were left with the lingering hope that Nicolas was ahead of schedule.

Thus, I not only knew Santa wasn’t real but had grown up with this knowledge and was completely unaware that other children did not have the same informed mindset. It was then with complete ignorance that I popped the bubble of fantasy and let reality into my peers’ minds.

Anarchy ensued.

Yelling at each other, yelling at the teacher, but mostly yelling at me, my fellow students debated the existence of their favorite gift-giving god with fervor yet unseen in Mrs. Dunlap’s classroom. And soon, they came to a conclusion they were all satisfied with: I was wrong.

It was with great disdain and condescension that the queen bee of second grade banned me from the art table where our entire class was working. This banishment carried over to lunch when I was forced to eat my sacrilegious sandwich on the other side of Mrs. Dunlap’s lunch table. I was a pariah, an exile, an outcast from Edgar Road Elementary School’s second grade.

Luckily, children are forgiving (or forgetful?) creatures and I was welcomed back the next day without hesitation. But, years later, looking back at this dark spot in the timeline of my popularity, I’ve learned a valuable lesson.

As much as getting bullied for three hours sucked, I don’t think I’m going to tell my kids that Santa is real. I still enjoyed the fantasy that is Ol’ Nick without ever having to transition my mindset to accept his actual nonexistence. Sure, the dream that is Rudolph is fun, but the blow that it’s all a hoax may have been too much for little Ariel–worse, even, than my social expulsion.